


Sherlock and the Case of John's Mysterious Eye Color

by wendymarlowe



Series: John and Sherlock's Kinky First Times [23]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Heterochromia, I still say John's eyes are brown, M/M, Rimming, Sherlock loves compliments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 07:35:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1932255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock tries to sneak an up-close view of John's eyes, to get an answer once and for all on the subject of "what color are those eyes, anyway?"  Porn-without-much-plot ensues :-)</p><p>(Part of my "John and Sherlock's Kinky First Times" series of shorts, all revolving around the same basic theme of "John and Sherlock get sexy for the first time and also discover some kinky stuff about each other.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock and the Case of John's Mysterious Eye Color

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this one might be a *little* tongue in cheek, but it was a good chance to write some porn :-) This is my concession to those of you who have called me out on my previous fics for saying John's eyes are brown - as apologies go, it's perhaps a bit wordy, but I hope you'll forgive me :-D
> 
> (And yes, I still do think John's eyes should be called "brown," but this seemed like a reasonable compromise.)

John awoke with a start to the sight of Sherlock's intense stare, less than a foot away from his face. It was probably a testament to their months sharing a flat - the strange schedules, the breathless chases across London, the odd chemistry of living with a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath - that John hadn't already punched him out of reflex. John had always been a light sleeper, and the Army had only intensified his fight-or-flight response upon waking.

"Should I even bother asking what the hell you're doing in my room?" he groaned, flinging an arm over his eyes.

"You didn't hit me." Sherlock sounded slightly surprised.

"Not yet, you berk. Again - what the hell are you doing in my room at -" - John levered himself up to look at the alarm clock behind him, then let his body flop back into his prior position - "- half five in the morning? Watching me sleep?"

Sherlock ignored the question, a slight frown marring his face. "You still have residual PTSD from your time in Afghanistan, you routinely startle at loud noises and unexpected touches you didn't see coming, and if I had been anyone else I wouldn't have gotten two feet into your room without you being awake and ready to protect yourself. But you didn't wake up when I came in, and you didn't hit me when you did awaken. Fascinating. Uncover your face, please."

John sighed and lowered his arm. Sherlock still hovered, face inches above his own, still watching him. _Assessing._

"Blue," Sherlock declared after a long moment.

"What . . . Oh. My eyes."

Sherlock's lips lifted in a hint of a smile, the motion reminding John exactly how expressive that mouth could be. "Very good," he murmured.

"You came up here to stare creepily at me in my sleep . . . because you wanted to know what color my _eyes_ are? You could have just asked, you know."

"I know." Sherlock shrugged. "They're surprisingly difficult to define, though. I thought they were brown, but then I saw you from an oblique angle yesterday, watching the telly, and I wasn't sure. Heterochromia - I should have guessed. I've been told the same about my own."

"Yours are 'verdigris,' according to your fan sites," John pointed out.

“You read my fan sites?”

“Not regularly.”

“But you do read them. _Interesting._ ”

“It’s not,” John said firmly. “It’s not interesting at all, it’s not _anything_ , and it’s five thirty in the bloody morning on the one day I have this week to enjoy a lie-in. What else do I need to do to make you go away so I can go back to sleep?”

Sherlock merely grinned and leapt over him, literally vaulted over his body to land on the free half of the bed. “You can rhapsodize more about my eyes. I think I’d like to hear that.”

John slammed his head back into his pillow and groaned. “You are a complete and utter berk, you know that?”

“Mmmm.” Sherlock bounced twice and shifted, twisting his long torso ninety degrees so he could stretch his legs flat on the bed and still prop himself up on one elbow. The better to study John, presumably. “You’ve used that one before - what else am I?”

“Prat, berk, jackass, bastard, and bloody dense when it comes to picking up hints. What, you’re expecting compliments at this hour?”

“I appreciate them at _any_ hour, just so you know,” Sherlock replied with a smirk. “You spend a lot of time complimenting my genius, but you check out my arse _all the time_ and you’ve never compliment me about _that._ Why?”

“Are we seriously having this conversation?”

“Yes.” Sherlock rolled over onto his stomach, angling his arse into the air and wriggling it a bit for good measure. He was still in his clothes from the previous evening, and his expensive trousers _did_ cling to his long legs (and arse) in what even a blind man would have noticed to be an appealing manner. John swallowed hard and turned his head away.

“I’ve been doing the same, you know,” Sherlock said softly. “You’ve got a pair of brown corduroys which look particularly delectable when you lean over. I _would_ have said they were the same color as your eyes, but obviously I was mistaken.”

“Sherlock-”

“I’ve been eating more vegetables,” Sherlock said, ignoring John’s interruption. “Primarily so you’d have to go shopping more and buy them more often, and then restock the bottom drawer in the fridge. Which necessitates bending over. I don’t even _like_ celery.”

“But you like ogling my arse.”

Sherlock sighed with obvious mock regret. “Not _just_ your arse, obviously, but it’s one of your better features. I like that your eyes are so interesting - almost navy, in this light. I do wish you wouldn’t wear such heavy jumpers, because they obscure your musculature, but every once in a while you do something particularly strenuous when you’re just wearing a t-shirt and I can see the definition in your biceps and I’m not ashamed to admit that they make me come over a bit wobbly.”

John blinked. Sherlock flirting was one thing - a _new_ and _strange_ thing, obviously, but he’d get over that. The man did new and strange things all the time. Sherlock actually admitting to “coming over a bit wobbly,” though, was something else entirely. A rather warm, appealing “something else” which had John suddenly much more awake than he had intended to be at this hour of the morning.

“Times like right now,” Sherlock murmured from behind him.

John felt a gentle whisper of motion against his skin and only belatedly realized it was Sherlock tugging the sheet down, so his upper torso was exposed. In contrast to Sherlock’s full put-together daywear, John was in his usual old t-shirt and boxers. Because he was in _bed_ , damn it, and it was still “night” by any decent sense of the word and he had been sleeping and _oh god_ , Sherlock was leaning over and nuzzling at the edge of John’s shirt sleeve.

“Even just this is making my heart beat faster,” Sherlock breathed against his bicep. “Knowing you’re so close, how much power you’re holding coiled up inside you - you can be downright deadly, Captain Watson. And yet you permit me to do this.” A sudden wash of temperature, warm then cold, a wet kiss cooling on his skin. “It makes me positively lightheaded.”

“You, ah.” John gulped in a breath, let it out before it could turn into a moan. “You probably haven’t been eating enough.”

“Oh, I know where I’d like my mouth to be,” Sherlock murmured, and John’s entire nervous system started firing at once. “Shall I show you?”

“Sherlock.” _Damn it, that came out way more needy than I intended._ More of a plea than a rebuke, honestly, but John was fast losing his ability to think of anything except his mad flatmate’s sinfully tempting mouth. And where, exactly, it might be able to go.

There was movement behind him - Sherlock shifting higher on the bed, gathering his balance. And then movement on John’s bicep, too - gentle pressure as the tip of Sherlock’s nose traced upward, over his t-shirt, traveling from bicep to shoulder until finally it reached the collar of his shirt and Sherlock leaned in to suck a dirty, open-mouthed kiss against the sensitive skin of his neck. John gasped in spite of himself, only a little mortified to hear Sherlock’s quiet chuckle.

“Enthralling,” Sherlock said, right in his ear, voice so low it was nearly a rumble. “Are you as responsive right . . . here?” His lips closed over John’s earlobe, warm and nimble and nowhere near as gentle as John had expected, but that was all right because John was already so hard he _ached_ and the pleasure-pain where Sherlock was nibbling on his ear was just one more part of the sensations buffeting him all over. Somebody moaned, low and dirty, and it took him longer than it should have to realize it was himself.

“Please.” He had to fight to get the word out, forcing it through his tight throat and dry mouth, but it was enough because Sherlock was suddenly tugging on the hem of his t-shirt and then John was on his back with his shirt being yanked off over his head and his hips pinned down to the mattress by a full six feet of absolutely bloody gorgeous consulting detective. Sherlock flung the offending garment somewhere in the vague direction of the closet, then ground his pelvis down firmly into John’s erection and John nearly bucked them both off the bed. It wasn’t the right kind of friction - not nearly enough, not quite in the right place - but John would have put even odds on him coming in his pants like a bloody teenager anyway, just at the sight of Sherlock looking so deliciously savage and rumpled and _oh so fucking horny._

“Condoms? Lube?” John was gratified to note that Sherlock’s voice was scratchy now, too, half an octave deeper than usual and with an energy bordering on manic.

“Don’t have any,” he admitted. “Your room?”

Sherlock ground his hips downward again, a slow rolling undulation. “We’re not going to wait that long.” He rolled away and John mourned the loss of his weight for the second and a half it took Sherlock to manhandle him onto his stomach and yank down his boxers. “I’m going to hold you right like this,” he growled. “You’re going to come all over your mattress because I’m going to have my tongue up your arse when you do.”

“Fuck, Sherlock.” No other words seemed appropriate.

But Sherlock wasn’t concerned about “appropriate,” it seemed. He seemed mostly concerned with sliding his weight down John’s legs until he deemed the angles sufficient, then dipping his head and delivering a long, wet lick down the crack of John’s arse. 

John let out a strangled yelp.

“Mmmmmm.” The vibrations buzzed through John’s entire body, locking him into some sort of primal state where all he could do was _feel_. Sherlock’s hands were on his arse now, too, spreading him apart, then Sherlock’s tongue descended again and it was all John could do to hang on to his pillow and not blatantly hump himself stupid into his own sheets. Not that he had much control over his body, by that point - his brain was devoid of all higher function, short-circuited by the signals coming from his cock and Sherlock’s hands and that dirty, dirty mouth. Which was currently torturing every square inch of skin it could reach, from the bottoms of his bollocks up to the small of his back.

The fingertip, when it came, was a complete surprise. One moment John was melting under the onslaught of Sherlock’s tongue, nudging and teasing, and the next moment there was something long and thin and spit-slick probing at his arsehole. John lifted his hips, pressing into it completely on instinct, then Sherlock’s finger was _inside him_ and Sherlock was gently feeling for his prostate and then everything went white and John’s muscles were all locked up because he was coming, _fuck,_ noises streaming from his mouth with no filter whatsoever-

When he finally got enough control of his body to collapse back onto the bed, boneless, John finally registered that Sherlock was lying beside him. The detective was propped up on one elbow and had set his other hand to tracing gentle circles on John’s back. John allowed himself to the count of ten to lie there and just _breathe_ before rolling over and dragging Sherlock to him.

“John, what-”

“Shut. Up.” He punctuated his order with two brief kisses on Sherlock’s lips, hard and dangerous and very definitely promising more if Sherlock would just follow directions for once.

Sherlock shut up.

“On your back. Now.” John shoved at Sherlock’s shoulder, forcefully, then followed through with his own weight so he was pinning Sherlock’s clothed form to the bed. He didn’t even have to look down to undo Sherlock’s flies - one-handed - and haul his rock-hard cock out of his pants.

“Oh. _Oh._ ” Sherlock’s head fell back against the pillow, a look of ecstasy on his face.

John didn’t bother with finesse, or subtlety, or any of those nicer technique things he usually had to use when he was with a woman. This was different, fast and simple and dirty, slicking up his palm with one long swipe of his tongue and then palming Sherlock with rather more force than necessary. Not that any of that seemed to bother the detective - Sherlock’s eyes were wide but unseeing, his neck bared in unspoken invitation. One which John took, gladly, sucking and nibbling with absolutely no grace whatsoever, pumping Sherlock’s cock madly with the one hand that could reach it. And it seemed that technique wasn’t necessary, this time, because Sherlock came with a shout loud enough to wake the married ones next door and a long quiver which reached from his toes all the way to his forehead.

They really were both a sticky mess. John tugged the now-languid consulting detective closer and buried his nose in Sherlock’s curls. “You made a miscalculation,” he murmured into Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock’s face wasn’t visible from his current vantage point, but John could feel the muscles move as the detective frowned. “I don’t do that.”

“You did this time.” John pulled back, enough to look each other in the eye. “What was the first thing you came in here for?”

‘. . . your eyes?”

“Exactly.” John pressed another quick, hard kiss against Sherlock’s mouth. “You wanted to know what color my eyes are, but you neglected to observe what happens during orgasm. They might change back to brown, for all you know. Seems like a rather major point for you to have missed.”

Sherlock’s eyes were nearly pure green, now, wide and still mostly dilated. “Brown?” he echoed.

“Mmmmm.” John lowered his head so they were almost nose-to-nose. “Sounds like we’ll need another experimental trial soon, don’t you?”

The emotions flashed openly across Sherlock’s face: confusion, concern, dawning realization, lust so blatant it would probably have made John come all over again if he hadn’t been so spent already. And then a frightening amount of determination. “You can bet on it,” he whispered.


End file.
